


For the Fishing

by sharim28



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Cabin Fic, F/M, Fishing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharim28/pseuds/sharim28
Summary: What if Thor didn't beam Jack away in Nemesis, just after he invited Sam to go fishing. Fic Exchange offering 2020.
Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 71
Kudos: 128





	For the Fishing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my offering as part of the 2020 SG Fic Exchanged organised by brightclam over on tumblr. My recipient is love-letters-x-cardigan-sweaters, and the prompt that I have chosen to fulfil was "Sam and Jack at the cabin".
> 
> This fic is unbeta'd so please ignore all the stupid spelling/grammer/timing issues that are bound to be present. It's also horrifically late because it kind of morphed out of control/out of proportion (omg 14k words how did that happen?!) and then I was working all the time and sometimes, shit just happens. Better late than never, right? Also, I'm not even sure if this story makes sense or has a point, but it's something right?
> 
> Also, thank you to NiceHatGeorgia for making sure it's not too Australian for me! Lots more notes at the end.

**one**

“Was that an invitation, sir?”

There’s a brief silence that hangs in the air between them after her question, and suddenly the ground feels unsteady and treacherous beneath her feet. 

“Nothing wrong with that is there? A couple of co-workers, friends if you will, fishing. It’d be fun.”

She marvels at how easily his words take the barely acknowledged ideas and possibilities suddenly swirling through her mind, and push them back into a reasonable perspective.

Friends.

Co-workers.

She swallows roughly, and realises she’s been staring at him, still unable to let go of those half formed thoughts that are clinging to her now. He tips his head to the side, waiting, and she swallows again, trying to loosen her tongue and find the right words.

 _Don’t make this weird, Sam_.

“Wow. I appreciate the offer, sir. Really. Sounds great… but I should…”

Before the words are even fully formed, he grabs the flimsy denial she’s laid out between them and runs with it, appearing almost relieved to have an excuse now to back out of the invitation after her question made it seem so much more than it clearly was. 

“No sweat. See you in a week, and by all means, have fun.”

Except suddenly, the week she has planned doesn’t seem so fun anymore. The half constructed naquadah generator has lost its gleam, and the welding torch feels heavy and clumsy in her hands.

Before she can blink, he’s walked out of her lab, and the room is cold and empty and lonely.

Why does it suddenly feel like she’s made the wrong decision? And why is it such a big deal if he asks her to go fishing? He’s right—they are friends and co-workers, aren’t they? So a fishing trip together is fine. Isn’t it?

So why is she saying no, when really, everything in her desperately wants to say yes?

Mouth dry, she stares at the generator. Gently, she places the electrode on her bench and heads out of the lab.

He’s two thirds of the way down the corridor already, his long stride carrying him towards the elevators. She trips into a jog, suddenly intent on catching him before he disappears out of sight and the opportunity is missed.

“Colonel!”

Is that her voice, sounding almost desperate as he reaches the elevator doors?

When he turns around to look at her, eyebrows raised in question, she comes to a halt several feet away from him, suddenly feeling like her heart is racing far too fast for someone who’s just jogged a few seconds up the hall. 

“Um, have a good time, sir.”

Well, that was lame.

“Land of sky blue waters? Loofahs? ‘Ya sure you betcha, snookums’. Mosquitoes. Home of the loons. Beer and-”

“Okay!” she says, a laugh bubbling up and escaping into the air between them. “You’ve convinced me. I’m in.”

“Great!” he says, and she wonders if her smile is as wide and ridiculously happy as his looks right now. 

“What’s the plan?” 

Five minutes later she’s in her lab, packing up the half built generator, and trying to ignore that tiny little voice that tells her she’s far too excited about this.

Friends, she tells herself. Co-workers. Nothing more.

And if for the last few months it feels like there has been an extra layer of _something_ swirling around between them, well, this is an excellent way to clear the air between them. To reset things back to a comfortable friendship and chase some of the cloudiness away.

* * *

**two**

She hears the distinctive rumble of his truck out the front of her house exactly two minutes before the time he gave her. With a last quick glance around her house, satisfied that everything is shut away and turned off, Sam grabs her backpack and slings it over her shoulder.

Outside it’s dark and quiet; the early morning autumn air is bitter and sharp. Overhead the stars are still out, but there’s a hint of light on the horizon and she knows they’ll start to fade soon before the sun rises. 

The Colonel looks sleepy and mussed, with his hair spiking in all sorts of directions as though he has just rolled out of bed. She keeps her hands firmly on her backpack when he undoes the back of his truck so they can toss her backpack in, denying the impulse to reach out and smooth his hair down.

“Coffee?” he grunts as they climb into his cab.

“Oh yeah.”

He stops at a nearby diner to pick up the coffees, and then they settle back into the cab for the trek ahead. Neither of them are big on inane chatter and the miles pass in a comfortable silence until the sun has well and truly cleared the horizon. The coffee is long gone, and her stomach is starting to remind her that they never grabbed breakfast, when he slows the truck down and pulls into the lot of a nondescript looking diner.

Inside is bright and light, with large floor to ceiling windows looking out over a small oasis crafted with clever landscaping. Autumn flowers are tumbling out of planters, and maple trees with their golden leaves spilling over thick green lawns are bright and bold against the deep green lawn. It’s unexpected and like a little jewel in the barren flatlands they’re passing through.

“Wow,” she says, pausing to take in the sight.

“Yeah,” he agrees; there’s a depth in his voice she’s not used to hearing. She glances up at him where he’s standing beside her, and she realises suddenly how much of this man she doesn’t know. She’s never seen him look quite so at ease before, as though he’s about to walk in the gate of his front yard. As though he’s finally heading home.

“Why, if it isn’t Colonel Jack!” a warm voice says. “It’s been a while Jack!”

“Jean,” the Colonel says, a large smile appearing on his features that shifts away the last of the clouds normally on his expression, and suddenly Sam almost doesn’t recognise him.

This man— _Jack_ —she doesn’t know at all. He seems so far removed from Colonel O’Neill that she wonders what she’s doing here with him.

“Well come here, stranger.”

Jean is about the Colonel’s age—maybe a bit younger—dressed in snug jeans and a soft sweater, with thick blond hair pulled back and pinned at the base of her skull. She looks far too elegant for a run of the mill diner, and very familiar with the Colonel. Sam watches as she pulls the Colonel into a hug, kissing his cheeks and hugging him again before allowing him to step back.

“And who’ve you got with you, Jack?” There’s a hint of an accent, as smokey and seductive as the eyes that swing around to take Sam in.

“This is Sam,” he says, slipping a hand at the small of her back and nudging her forwards. “Major Samantha Carter.”

“Air Force too?” Jean asks, smiling warmly at Sam, and Sam can see the speculation in her gaze at it swings between the two of them. And that’s about the time that the small fantasy Sam’s been constructing in her mind shatters to a million pieces and she realises that this trip was a very, _very_ bad idea.

“Yes, I am. I work with Colonel O’Neill,” she says stiffly, reaching a hand out to shake Jean’s. Jean ignores her hand and instead puts her hands on Sam’s shoulders and tugs her closer for a quick kiss on the cheek.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Sam. Go grab a table, Jack, and I’ll let Hoop know you’re here. What can I get you, dear?”

“Um, coffee would be great, thank you,” Sam says politely.

“And waffles,” the Colonel adds.

“As if I’d forget them,” Jean laughs, disappearing back into the kitchen.

The Colonel leads the way to a corner booth beside the window that makes Sam feel like they’re sitting in the centre of the gardens.

“Friends of yours?” Sam asks, sliding onto the seat opposite him.

“Yeah. Sorry, I should have warned you,” he says.

“No, it’s okay,” she says, but something feels off now. Like it’s forced between them and uncomfortable. Feeling awkward, Sam deliberately turns her gaze out of the window. Overhead the sky has turned a vibrant blue that contrasts against the leaves and looks almost unending. 

“Here you go,” Jean’s voice cuts into Sam’s musings as she places two large, steaming mugs on the table between them.  
“You going to join us?” Jack asks.

“I’d love to, dear, but one of my girls called in sick today and someone has to run the place. I think Hoop will sit with you if there is time between orders. Otherwise you’ll have to call in on your way home.”

Once Jean glides away the silence descends between them again, awkward in the bright sunlight filtering in through the window. It’s as though in daylight it’s harder to try and hide the truth from themselves than it was in the pre-dawn greyness when they started the trip.

“I served with Hoop a long time ago,” the Colonel offers unexpectedly, breaking the silence between them.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We were in the same unit for a while.”

A long history, Sam realises, just another facet to the man in front of her that she doesn’t really know. Shouldn’t know. Shouldn’t _want_ to know.

She wonders what happened that had Hoop leave the Air Force and end up in a diner somewhere in western Kansas.

“Sometimes I think Hoop had the best of it all along.”

Sam tears her gaze from her coffee up to the Colonel, but he’s staring out the window, as though unaware of what he’s just said.

“Sir?”

He sighs a little before finally turning his head to meet her gaze. “He got out after a mission went wrong. I was… missing. And he got busted up a lot.”

It’s more than he’s ever told her about the earlier life he had with the Air Force. “Medical discharge?”

“Yeah,” the Colonel nods. “I used to feel guilty when we’d see him and Jean. You know, after.”

Curiosity is definitely a weakness with her, and this unusual openness from him just seems to draw her in, offering an insight into the man she’s so desperate to know. She’s opening her mouth to ask a question when heavy footsteps interrupt her.

“Hey Jack, I got you the usual, and a top up.”

“Hoop,” the Colonel says, and his face splits into the same easy smile he shared with Jean.

Hoop is big—almost Teal’c sized big—with a buzz cut and a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. He’s holding a large plate of waffles in one hand, and a coffee jug and mug in the other. 

“Where the hell have you been, Jack?” Hoop asks, carefully placing the plate and coffee jug on the table before reaching over and giving the Colonel a rough bear hug and slap on the back. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t tell me you’ve met someone.”

“Oh,” the Colonel says, looking uncomfortable suddenly, clearing his throat. “This is Carter. _Major_ Sam Carter.”

Hoop’s eyebrows raise a little. “Well, nice to meet you, _Major_ Sam Carter. What brings the two of you out here this early on a school day? And don’t tell me it’s the waffles, Jack.”

“But they’re so damn good,” the Colonel says glibly, sliding a fork towards her and pushing one towards Hoop. “Trust me, Carter. These are worth it.”

He knows her too well, and knows that waffles don’t usually make the breakfast menu. But he’s right, because they’re crunchy and fluffy and the syrup has almost soaked into them, and she can’t help herself cutting a second mouthful from the large plate between them.

“Wow,” she says around a mouthful, and he hums in agreement.

There’s silence for a few minutes while they eat a few more bites and Hoop pours himself a coffee. Sam finds herself studying him discreetly, trying to work out what it was that caused a medical discharge. And how he found himself cooking waffles. 

“You only ever stop by when you’re heading up to the cabin these days,” Hoop says finally, refilling his cup and then topping hers off too.

“Yup,” the Colonel agrees, nudging his cup over for a refill.

“Hmm,” Hoop says, casting another considering look at her; she’s horrified to feel her cheeks flushing with warmth.

“Carter’s a whiz with machinery,” the Colonel says unexpectedly.

Hoop snorts a laugh. “You’re not telling me you’re still trying to get that piece of junk running up there.”

“It’s not a piece of junk,” the Colonel says defensively, frowning at Hoop.

“Jack, even Sara and Mike couldn’t get that thing running, and those two had magic hands with engines. It’s a lost cause. You should just cut your losses and admit it was a bad buy.”

“Never,” the Colonel says.

“Just get a new motor for it, Jack.”

“You haven’t met Carter yet,” the Colonel says, looking over at her with pride in his eyes. “She can fix anything.”

“Except the unfixable,” Hoop mutters into his coffee. “No offense, Carter.”

“None taken,” she says easily, turning her suspicious gaze back to the Colonel who suddenly seems very intent on the coffee in front of him.

“Jack hasn’t told you about his junker, has he?” Hoop asks insightfully, amusement clearly evident in his voice.

“No,” Sam says. “He hasn’t.”

“It’s not a junker,” the Colonel defends again, shooting an irritated look at Hoop. “It’s going to be a beauty.”

“Except it’s not going,” Hoop feels the need to add again.

Despite herself, Sam finds a smile tugging at her lips again. “Colonel, did you invite me to your cabin under the guise of fishing so you could rope me into fixing something for you?”

“It’s not the only reason, no,” the Colonel says awkwardly. “But yeah, I hoped you might have a look while you were up there.”

Sam’s more curious about what the other reasons are, than the actual item he wants her to fix, and that alone should be a red flag.

“Besides,” he adds, shooting a smug look at Hoop. “Once you get her going we can get up on the bigger lakes where the real fish are.”

“A boat?” Sam clarifies.

“A shipwreck,” Hooper corrects. “The Titanic waiting to happen.”

“There are no icebergs in the lake, Hoop.”

“And no fish either,” Hoop mutters under his breath, shooting another cheeky grin at Sam. “So don’t tell me you’re going up there for the fishing.”

“Hoop, love, I know you want to see Jack, but we have orders to cook and Jack has a long drive ahead.”

“Yes Jean, coming Jean,” Hoop says, rolling his eyes, standing up at the table. He slaps the Colonel’s shoulder again, pulls off a sloppy salute at Sam and fills up their mugs one more time. “Nice to meet you, Major Sam Carter. And don’t you be a stranger, O’Neill. Next time you come through, plan on stopping by for longer than just the waffles.”

“You could always come visit,” the Colonel returns. 

“I would,” Hoop says, a suddenly serious and knowing look in his eyes as he meets the Colonel’s gaze. “But you’re never home. For weeks. So next time Jack, you make time to come visit. The kids would love to see you again.”

“Yeah,” the Colonel says quietly. “I’ll do that.”

“You’re welcome too, Sam,” Hoop says, smiling at her in welcome. “Now, I better go make waffles before Jean gets cranky.”

It’s when he’s walking away that Sam notices the slightly rolling gait and the way his footfalls sound uneven to the ear. 

Her eyes swing around to the Colonel to find him watching her.

“He got caught in crossfire,” the Colonel says, answering her unspoken question. “Lost the leg below the knee.”

Sam turns back to where Hoop disappears through the swinging doors into the kitchen, listening to the squeak as the shutters continue to rock gently in his wake. Sitting there in the sunshine she feels lucky to be alive. Even luckier because she’s sitting right there with the Colonel, both of them whole and well and alive, because really, anything could change in a heartbeat on any given day. Mortality is suddenly confronting.

“Carter?” There’s a trace of concern on his voice, and she fights to chase the morbid thoughts away.

“You know, if you told me there was a boat to fix, I probably wouldn’t have hesitated saying yes.”

He smiles at her then, the same easy smile he gave Jean and Hoop, and Sam realises she’s in very, _very_ big trouble.

  
  


* * *

**three**

It’s completely dark by the time the tires crunch onto a gravel drive. Sam’s so tired and stiff from sitting in the car all day, and feels slightly sick from all the junk food and candy and soft drinks they’ve consumed, that she’s forgotten to be awkward and on guard in his company.

“Just over this hill,” he says beside her, sounding as tired as she feels while he navigates a sharp turn as the truck keeps climbing the overgrown track.

“Thank god,” she groans, trying to stretch awkwardly in the confines of the cab. “How often do you do this drive?”

“Not that often these days,” he says regretfully. “It’s too far unless we’ve got a good amount of downtime.”

She thinks it’s a pity, because the closer they’ve gotten to this cabin, the more Colonel O’Neill seems to disappear and Jack has come to the forefront. Where O’Neill is often tense and alert, Jack has an easy way about him that helps Sam settle down and enjoy the scenery instead of focusing on the details.

Steering her thoughts away from that line of thinking, she watches as the headlights sweep around a corner and suddenly there in front of them is a little log cabin tucked under the pine trees. Just beyond, glinting in moonlight and the edges of the light cast by the car she can see water glistening serenely.

“Oh,” she says quietly as the car rolls to a stop and he cuts the engine. “This looks great.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It really is. Come on, come have a look around.”

He reaches towards her, and for a crazy second Sam thinks he’s going to grab her hand, but he’s opening the glove box and pulling out a large flashlight. She tells herself she’s not disappointed, and as if to prove the point to herself she pushes her hands deep into her coat pockets when he takes her on a quick tour, ending up on the dock where they pause and watch the moonlight bounce off the water for a while.

Overhead, the sky is full of bright stars and so clear she can see the band of light marking the Milkyway across the southern edge of the sky.

“This is beautiful,” she says, captivated by the peace and the vastness of the sky and surroundings. She spends so much time in the stars that sometimes she forgets how beautiful they are just to stop and look at.

“Yeah,” he agrees again. “It’s pretty special.”

They stand in silence for some time, the cold evening air slowly working its way beneath the layers of her clothing so that she starts thinking dangerous thoughts about stepping closer to the Colonel under the guise of body heat. Blinking, she shakes her head a little and stamps her feet, trying to simultaneously warm up and dislodge those insidious thoughts that just won’t stop coming now that she’s up here at the cabin with him. 

“Let’s get inside and warmed up. I’ll show you where the generator is first though, because it can be a little temperamental,” he says, pointing the light back towards his cabin. “We’ll do a proper tour in the morning. 

Reluctantly, Sam turns her back on the small lake and follows him back to the cabin; the sound of their boots crunching over the gravel is the only sound she can hear for miles. Her breath fogs like silver mist in front of her face, hanging in the moonlight like magic until she steps through it. 

The generator is ancient but well maintained, and the area around it well organised. It only takes a couple of pulls to get it going, and with the rattling hum of the motor soft yellow lights flicker on above their heads.

“You don’t have mains power here?”

“I do, but I need to hit the breaker.”

It takes him a few seconds to open the wall panels and sort out the power before he motions her out the door and back out into the night sky. She follows him around to the front of the cabin, stamping up the wooden steps behind him. The inside of the cabin follows the same theme of the external—rustic, well used, well maintained and comfortable. It’s not big, but there are a couple of sofas squashed around a fireplace, and an island bench with some stools around it serves as both a workspace and eating space.

“It’s pretty basic,” he says off-handedly, and if she didn’t know him so well she wouldn’t catch the slight hint of hesitation on his voice.

“It’s great,” she says honestly.

Bright quilted throws are folded over the backs of the sofa, complementing equally bright throw cushions. The walls are crowded with old photographs and fishing prints, and a bookshelf in the corner is crammed full of an interesting mix of books. 

“It’s been in the family for a long time,” he says quietly, watching her eyes track around the walls and pausing on the old black and white photos. 

She wonders what it was like, growing up with something this constant in his life. Not only the location, but the family heritage shining through on the walls. All she had was the unending parade of military housing as her father was moved from one station to another, and then that awful emptiness when her mother was ripped away from her. No heirlooms, no family cabins, not even a Christmas tradition that carried over into adulthood. 

“Carter?”

She forces a smile. “It’s amazing,” she says sincerely. She wants to find words to tell him how incredible this is, how envious she is, but the words are missing and the sentiment is stuck in her throat. He looks a little concerned, but chooses to follow her lead and doesn’t push. 

They unload the truck quickly, and he lets her unpack the cooler and fill the pantry while he sets the fire. When he offers to fix something for a late dinner she declines. “Actually, sir, I think I’m about ready to turn in.”

“The rooms are this way,” he says, grabbing their bags and leading the way to the back of the cabin. “This is mine, and you can have that one. It probably needs a good airing, I’m sorry.”

It smells a bit dusty when he pushes open the door, but it’s not really much worse than the rest of the cabin that hasn’t been aired for a while. There’s a single set of bunks in the corner, a small wardrobe, and a little boy's raincoat hanging from the foot of the bunks. Her eyes are drawn to the far end of the room where yellowed paper with curling edges is taped to the rough hewn log walls, the jagged edges of a childish depiction of airplanes and rockets and stick figure astronauts still vibrant on the fading paper. Across the top of one of the sheets, printed in uneven lettering in bright green crayon is the name “Charlie”.

“He was into rockets and space for a while,” the Colonel says quietly, his gaze also on the wall of artwork.

“He obviously had good taste,” Sam says quietly, eyes stuck on that bright green name.

“Sorry to say it moved on to firemen after that.” There’s a hint of nostalgia, even a sad little smile on the Colonel’s voice. 

“At least it wasn’t the marines, sir.”

He chuckles, and hands over her backpack. “True. Bathroom is the last door on the right. Water takes a while to heat, and the pipes rattle.”

“I’m not scared of ghosts, sir,” she smiles.

“I know.” He pauses as though he wants to say something else, maybe even touch her cheek, but then he nods and disappears across the hall into the room he’d flagged as his own.

She gets ready for bed quickly—it’s late and cold and she’s exhausted after the long day in the car—but sleep eludes her. Instead she lies awake for a long time, her gaze drawn to the picture on the wall she can’t quite see in the moonlight, but she can’t seem to forget is hanging there.

* * *

**four**

It’s cold and still when she wakes up, as though the thick down comforter she’s snuggled under has been wrapped around the world around her, muffling both light and sound. For a few minutes she just lays there in the warmth, listening to the stillness until she can make out the faint sound of birdsong and gentle creaks of the cabin around her.

It’s still early enough that the sun hasn’t risen, but there’s a grey light filtering in through the windows. She lingers until the call of nature is stronger than her desire to stay snuggled under the covers, and she creeps out of the warmth into the cold air. There’s a rug, soft and worn, beneath her feet and she wishes she thought to pack some slippers instead of the single pair of thick socks she’s currently wearing. It takes seconds to pull on a thick sweater and pluck her padded coat from the top bunk where she draped it last night.

She spares a glance at Charlie’s drawing on the wall; in the grey dawn light the colours don’t seem as vibrant as they did last night under the soft yellow glow of the overhead light. She reaches out to touch the drawing but catches herself before her fingers brush over the brittle paper—it seems wrong to try and touch a ghost.

The scent of coffee drags her back into the living space when she’s finished in the bathroom, and while the machine is full of a hot brew there’s no sign of the Colonel anywhere in the cabin. She’s pouring herself a mugful when she catches sight of him through the kitchen window. He’s standing at the far end of the dock, looking cold and lonely in the grey of the morning. Sam only hesitates for a few seconds, not sure whether he’ll appreciate her company or whether he wants his solitude, but the draw of him is too strong to resist. She pours another mugful and stuffs her feet into her unlaced boots before grabbing both mugs and carefully makes her way onto the dock.

“Thanks,” he says when she hands him the full mug, tucking his empty one into the crook of his arm. 

They stand together side by side, taking in the start of the day. The sun is just starting to creep over the tips of the trees, throwing small beams of colour across the greyness. Soft light highlights the glittering frost that’s thick across the reeds and grasses, and reflects gently off through the thin mist hanging over the surface of the lake. The water is almost unmoving, the only ripples evident as small insects glide across the surface. 

“You sleep okay?”

“Fine,” she says, sorry that their voices are breaking the spell of the morning. “Don’t think I woke up at all. It’s so peaceful here.”

“Fresh air woken up your appetite yet?”

She considers his question. “Yeah, I think it has.”

“It’s tradition to have omelettes on the first morning.”

“Really?” 

“Really,” he says with a smile. “I have a special ingredient.”

“It’s too early for beer, sir.”

“You wound me, Carter.”

She manages to avoid asking during breakfast. Even manages to help with the clean up and then gets through a proper tour of the area outside the cabin while he talks about all the great walks and the fishing and the birds, but the longer he talks and points out the features of the landscape, the itchier her hands feel because there’s only so much ‘relaxing’ that she can take. And she notices there’s a small shed tucked away in the treeline that she’s pretty sure must be where he stores it. Her eyes keep straying to it despite the spectacular landscape she should be immersed in.

“Okay,” he says abruptly. “Fine. I’ll show you the boat.”

“That obvious?” she asks slightly guiltily.

He doesn’t bother replying, just raises his eyebrow and tilts his head at her in a move that would make Teal’c proud. 

He leads the way to the shed. Of all the worn and aged equipment and structure she’s seen on his property so far, this little shed by far looks the least well maintained, as though by letting the overgrowth claim it, he can almost hide it from his mind. There’s a thick layer of forest debris laying in the path of the door, and she helps him kick it out of the way so the door can swing open.

When he flicks on the light her first thought is that Hoop was right—it’s the Titanic waiting to happen. But when she sees that same childish handwriting on the outside of the hull in faded permanent marker proclaiming “Pirate Hunters” with a lopsided picture of a skull and crossbones, she thinks she understands why he can’t let it go.

“It’s not really that exciting,” he tells her indifferently, but he uses his elbow to try and dust off a patch of dirt, and she wonders if this is a lot more than he was intending to share with her this week.

“It is to me,” she tells him, studying the boat.

It’s small, with faded paintwork and a metal hull. There’s a small windshield protecting the driver and a bench seat across the beam in the stern; two faded plastic chairs sit unevenly on their poles behind the windscreen. The motor looks older than the boat itself and is almost dismantled on the ground around the hull.

“You know, it would be easier to just put a new motor on it.”

He looks at her, almost mocking. “Changed your mind?”

She forces a smile and looks at the disaster again. “You know me, sir. I always love a challenge.”

“Yes, well, there’s a challenge, and then there’s this.”

His words push at her resolve. “Give me three days.”

“You know, Carter, I didn’t bring you up here to fix this.”

“You didn’t?” 

“No.”

“Then why did you invite me up here?” The words slip out before she can censor them.

There’s a pause.

“For the fishing?”

Except she knows damn well now there are no fish in his lake. But some measure of sanity stops her from pointing that out, because if he didn’t invite her up to catch fish or fix his boat, she’s running out of reasonable excuses for him to want her company unless…. 

And that’s a thought she won’t allow herself to finish. 

Forcing her attention back to the boat, Sam thinks maybe it would be a good idea to find something else to focus on for a bit. Something other than Jack O’Neill. 

“I like fixing things,” she says quietly. “Would it be okay if I had a look at it?”

He shrugs. “No pressure, Carter. You do what you want.”

It’s not exactly encouragement, but for the sake of a bit of space from him and all the intensity that being _here_ with _him_ seems to be bringing, she takes it at face value and steps towards the boat.

“Now?” he asks, almost a little annoyed.

“Did you have something else you wanted to do?”

He shuffles his feet a little, huffs and shakes his head. “Only a few hours, Carter, and then I’m dragging you out for lunch and walk. I didn’t bring you all this way to let you spend the entire time buried in a repair.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “And thanks, sir.”

“For what?”

“Bringing me up here.”

Again that slightly too long silence.

“Anytime, Carter.”

* * *

**five**

“Carter, I swear to God if I have to drag you out of there, I’m locking it up and not letting you back near it.”

Blinking, she looks up in surprise.

“Sir?”

His silhouette looks almost ethereal in the bright glow of the sunlight behind his back while dust motes spin and whirl around his head like an aura, glittering in the golden light.

“It’s been two hours since I told you lunch was ready to go.”

“It has?”

How’s that even possible?

He sighs. “Carter, please, don’t worry about this old junker.”

“But you told Hoop-”

“I know,” he interjects. “It’s a long standing debate between us. Has been for years. I don’t think either of us ever expected this thing to go. It was only because Charlie-” He stops abruptly, and then kicks aimlessly at the wheel of the trailer the small boat is resting on. “Besides, the weather is too good to waste it in the shed. The trails are great, and you haven’t even been fishing yet.”

Her stomach growls loudly as if to emphasise his point.

“Okay,” she says reluctantly. “Sorry, sir.”

“Go get cleaned up, and we’ll go for a walk after you’ve eaten.”

“Yes, sir.”

She follows him back down to the cabin, almost surprised at the brightness of the day given the icy cold and grey start to the morning. Sometime between cleaning the fuel system and trying to pull out worn old spark plugs the day has turned sunny and warm, and she realises she must have stripped her sweatshirt off some time ago.

It’s when she catches sight of herself in the small bathroom mirror that she realises she didn’t really bring the right clothes for this. She’s filthy—there’s grease and grime and dirt all over her t-shirt and jeans, oil and God knows what else caked over her hands and under her fingernails, and her face is so dirty she looks like a street urchin. Heaven only knows what the Colonel thinks seeing her look so filthy.

She tries as hard as she can to scrub the grime from her hands and face before stripping off her dirty clothes and replacing them with shorts and a tank top.

“Do you have a washing machine up here?” she asks hopefully when she sits down at the kitchen bench beside him to a thick sandwich made with soft crusty bread.

“No, but there’s a laundromat in town.”

“I might have to do a trip later in the week,” she confesses, thinking of her sparse supplies that won’t hold out at this rate.

“We’ll need to go restock the food anyway.”

“Is there a hardware store or mechanic? I need a few parts for the boat.”

He shoots her a look. “Of course you do.” She recognises the look though, and the fond affection in it belies his resigned words. “We can go tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks, sir.”

It feels slightly strange, but surprisingly comfortable sitting down with him to enjoy a simple meal he’s put together. Conversation is minimal, but it’s easy between them the way it always is, and Sam finds herself wondering why she was so keen to avoid him this morning.

Actually, she knows why she’s trying to keep some distance. Because it feels like they’re at a crossroads, and she has the choice to make about whether from here on it’s her career or… something else. Something has been growing between them for some time now, a subtle shift from the formation of a solid friendship and respect into the start of something… more. Everything inside her is screaming ‘yes’ at the thought of something more. He just fits with her in all the right ways, and she’s pretty sure he’d fit even better in other ways, but there’s a fork in the road.  
  
Career or something more. 

Lost in her thoughts, she only realises he’s finished his meal before her when he stands up abruptly after pushing his plate to the side. He disappears into the back of the cabin, and then reappears with a bundle of worn flannel and soft cotton.

“Here,” he says, placing it on the table beside her.

“What’s that?”

“Some old clothes. It won’t matter if you get grease and crap on these ones.”

He’s surprisingly sweet, she thinks, and unexpectedly considerate, hiding his softer side behind the gruff and impatient Colonel exterior.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Eat up, Carter. Daylight won’t hang around forever you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sun is warm on her skin despite the slight chill to the breeze; they hike along a game trail for a few hours until they reach a small crest and suddenly an endless network of azure blue water interspersed with dense woodland and small islands appears in front of them. In the distance the suggestion of mountains creates some depth on the horizon.

“Oh,” Sam says, her voice slightly breathless with exertion. “This is spectacular.”

“Yeah,” the Colonel agrees, unclipping his canteen and taking a long draw. “I like to come out here when I can. Remind myself of what we’re fighting for.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, studying the view. Sometimes she gets so caught up in the magnitude and importance of what they do, she loses sight of what it is they’re trying to protect. She accepts his canteen when he hands it over, and they stand for some time taking in the sight and catching their breath.

The walk back seems to pass more quickly than the hike out; towards the end the temperature starts to plummet as the light starts to dwindle. They jog the last twenty minutes to try and keep warm, and by the time they arrive back at the cabin the sun is close to setting and she’s not sure what she was thinking by wearing shorts and a tank top. 

“I’ll go fix the fire,” the Colonel says when they reach the front door. “Go get warmed up.”

“I’ll do dinner?”

He looks at her dubiously.

“I can actually cook, sir,” she says defensively.

“Uh huh. I’ve seen your kitchen and your fridge, Carter.”

“Even I can heat canned soup and warm up the rolls.”

They eat their soup sitting side by side on one of the small sofas. There’s an old television set in the corner where a fuzzy VHS copy of the Simpsons is on quietly in the background. Between the warmth of the fire and the soup and the comfort of his company, she feels warm and relaxed and suddenly distance between them doesn’t seem so necessary anymore.

He pulls out a chessboard and they take their time moving pieces while conversation remains easy, until she finally concedes defeat and knocks over her king. When she lies in bed that night she wonders what he was like as a father and a husband.

* * *

**six**

The clothes he’s lent her to work in are soft and comfortable; an old flannel shirt that’s seen better days and a pair of sweats she has to tie tightly around her waist to stop them from falling down. They’re baggy and loose and no doubt unflattering, but walking around in his old clothes has her feeling more feminine than she has in years. Maybe because they make her feel smaller than what she is, maybe a little daintier, and she rolls her eyes at herself in the mirror because that’s not really something Sam Carter normally cares about. Or maybe it’s got something to do about the intimacy of wearing _his_ clothes.

“Have fun,” he says, not looking up from the fishing rod he has spread across the table top. There are all sorts of pieces of fishing paraphernalia and hooks and nylon line scattered around the table he’s working on, and his focus is clearly on whatever he has between his fingers while he attempts to thread the nylon through a loop. She hesitates on the threshold, half tempted to leave the boat alone and join him at the bench with his fishing gear.

She’s not that excited by fishing really, but watching his lean hands keep busy with gear, and listening to his voice while he mutters and curses at the small pieces sure makes it a lot more interesting than she’s previously considered it.

“Changing your mind?” He asks, turning to her when she’s hesitated too long.

“You sure you don’t mind if I do a few more hours?” she says instead, refusing to admit she’d rather spend time with him.

“Suit yourself.”

The dim little shed with its dust and dirt is certainly not as appealing as the thought of sitting on the dock beside him in the sunshine for the morning. And really, she thinks as she surveys yesterday's work, there isn’t a whole lot more she can do without some new parts. She’s cleaned what she can, stripped back what she can and checked for leaks and cracks. Truth be told, there wasn’t all that much to do—even though it was old and dusty, the motor had been stripped back pretty well and the bulk of the hard work already done.

No doubt by Sara and Mike, as Hoop had indicated. She’s not sure why they never put it back together, because for all it needs a few replacement parts, there’s not actually anything fatally wrong with the motor that she can see. It should be an easy and quick fix now.

Her hand touches lightly over the writing on the hull, tracing the uneven letters.

Maybe they were about to put it back together, but things changed before they got that far.

It’s interesting, she thinks, that his ex-wife was interested in mechanics too. And blond. Really, they look quite similar. And any woman who can raise a child on her own with a husband away more than he was home—let alone through periods when he was MIA or thought dead—has to be pretty strong and capable.

She wonders if he has a type, and tells herself to stop.

This is not about comparing herself to Sara. And this definitely isn’t about trying to fix more than his boat.

On principle, she forces herself to stay in the shed for an hour or so, even though the sunshine and fishing and an appealing man are tempting her outside the doors. Because there’s not much left to do on the motor she spends the time cleaning the hull carefully, brushing out debris and leaves and washing off droppings and cobwebs until suddenly it doesn’t look as old and dilapidated as she thought it was.

“Done already?” he asks when she makes her way over to him where he’s sitting on a camp chair at the end of the little pier, line in the water and cap perched on his head.

“As much as I can for now.”

It’s peaceful in the warm autumn sunshine, a hint of a breeze creating small ripples on the pond and the sound of birdsong echoing around them. She settles on the pier beside him; after dipping a hand in the water she decides it’s too cold to dangle her feet in, and instead leans against the frame of his chair, letting her eyes drift shut and enjoying the freedom that this escape is offering.

“That can’t be comfortable, Carter,” he says after a few minutes.

“It’s not,” she agrees.

“Grab a chair,” he says easily.

It’s almost too easy to shift a little, and then she’s pressed against the outside of his thigh, lowering her head cautiously to his knee. “Is this okay?”

Again, a slightly too long pause while he considers her words and the subtle change she’s just introduced between them.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fine.”

When she wakes up a little later, neck stiff and butt aching from sitting on the hardwood of the pier for too long, she can feel his fingers tangled in her hair; he moves his hand away quickly, and she doesn’t say anything as they quietly get up and stretch.  
  


* * *

**seven**

Silver Creek isn’t much more than a cluster of houses, a few small stores, and a bar & grill. The guy behind the counter in “Mark’s General Store” starts talking to the Colonel first, asking him questions about the motor and the Colonel looks at him blankly, shrugs, and points to her.

“I need a new impeller, and I think a new gasket.”

The guy looks between her and the Colonel again before leading her to a room out the back that’s crammed full of boat motors, spares and accessories. Thirty minutes later the Colonel helps her cart boxes back to his truck.

“Do you really need all of this?” he asks doubtfully as they stack them in the tray.

“Yes,” Sam says firmly, tucking a small wrapped parcel out of sight behind the large box with the gasket, some new spark plugs and the impeller. 

“Lunch now?” he asks almost hopefully, before leading her to the Up the Creek Bar & Grill where they sit side by side in a booth and share a basket of chicken strips with their sodas. She tries hard not to focus too much on the feel of his thigh against hers. 

It feels so simple and so easy to walk up the sidewalk afterwards with his arm behind her back and his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, as though he’s guiding her up the road. It’s comfortable and intimate and she realises that the height difference between them is kind of perfect. They’ve walked together countless times off-world and on-world, on base and off, and she marvels that this feels no different, even with the warmth and weight of his hand on her shoulder. She’s always felt comfortable at his side, and right now even more so. She’s almost a little surprised that this feels so natural even with the added layer of the physical closeness. 

“Jack! Jack O’Neill!” a voice calls just as they’re about to step into the grocery store, breaking into her musings. “Sara! I didn’t realise you were-oh.”

She stops when he does, turning with him to face a short, curvy older woman with curly grey hair and a pastel blue twinset.

“Oh, sorry dear,” she repeats, looking a little disconcerted.

“Hello Mrs. Wilson,” the Colonel says easily, not moving his hand from her shoulder. If anything, he tugs her a little closer to his side. While the closeness feels great, there’s a niggle of unease crawling up her spine and makes it difficult to hold onto the carefree feelings of a few seconds earlier.

“How many times have I told you, dear, call me Marva.”

“Sorry. Marva.”

“I didn’t realise you were in town again, Jack.”

Her eyes, slightly emphasised behind her tortoiseshell glasses, flick unmistakably towards Sam before settling back on the Colonel.

“Only for the week, Mrs. Wilson. We had some time off at work and I thought it would be a good opportunity to come up for a quick visit and air the place out. Catch up on some fishing.”

“Oh.” Again her eyes flick towards Sam, an unspoken question in them that Sam’s been avoiding asking herself.

“Sam’s fixing my boat,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Oh. Well. It’s nice to meet you dear. Sam,” Mrs. Wilson says, and they stand awkwardly for a time until the Colonel shifts slightly on his feet.

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Wilson,” the Colonel says. “Please thank Mr. Wilson for the firewood and taking care of that tree that fell over a few weeks ago.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” Mrs. Wilson says, looking relieved for a safe topic of conversation. “Well. I’ll be seeing you around, Jack.”

“Bye Mrs. Wilson.”

It’s only a few steps up into the grocery store, but his hand on her shoulder suddenly feels like it’s weighing her down and she struggles to stop herself from shrugging it off, desperate to get up the steps into the store. When his hand slips from her shoulder, she feels like she can breathe again.

They’re in the fresh produce section—she’s gathering some apples and he’s over at the vegetables—when it happens again. She watches as a man close to the Colonel in age claps him on the shoulder and they exchange greetings in front of the corn. There’s warmth and even affection on his voice as he talks to the man, most of the words not carrying to hear clearly but she makes out the words “together” and “Sara” and sees the slightly uncomfortable way the Colonel shrugs. She pretends to be focused on choosing out the apples, and doesn’t miss the way the man casts a glance in her direction, the slight change in tone, and then the silence after they’ve said their goodbyes.

“Ready to go?” he asks, appearing by her side.

“Yeah.”

And then, maybe because she’s getting paranoid, she becomes aware of other surreptitious glances as they make their way back to the truck after paying for the food supplies. By the time they climb in and he fires up the engine, she feels stiff and tense and ready to call it quits with this whole pretence of an easy trip between friends. Sam’s not stupid, and she’s annoyed at herself for not realising that in a small town where the Colonel has obviously spent a lot of time over the years he’s never just going to blend in. And by default, neither will she. And while it’s one thing to try and forget about the Air Force and reality for a little while, it’s a completely different thing for people to be confusing her for his ex-wife, or assuming that she’s a replacement.

“You okay?” he asks as he navigates through the intersection and turns the truck onto the highway that leads back to his cabin.

“Fine,” she says, but her voice is abrupt and it’s painfully obvious that she’s anything but fine. The word, strangled and uncomfortable clogs the air between them, and Sam can almost feel her discomfort like a tangible cloak settling over her shoulders.

Eventually she can’t bear it anymore, and breaks the silence between them.

“You know a lot of people in town.”

“Yeah.” 

That silence again, thick and uncomfortable.

“They thought I was your wife.”

“Ex-wife.” He says after a pause. “Sara.”

She knows what his ex-wife’s name is; remembers meeting her briefly a few years ago. Back then, before she’d had more feelings than respect and admiration, maybe with a bit of hero worship thrown in, she hadn’t really paid much attention to the physical similarities between her and the Colonel’s ex. But in recent years, she’s found herself drawn to photographs of the woman in the Colonel’s house, discreetly comparing herself to the woman and wondering if their similarities ran more than skin deep. 

“It was a bit… awkward,” she says finally.

“Tell me about it,” he says emphatically, gaze focused on the road ahead.

She thinks of his hand on her shoulder. His thigh pressed against hers in the booth. The way she dozed against his leg in the sunshine earlier this morning. “I look a little like her, don’t I?”

He flicks her a look, eyes narrowed before turning back to the road. “I didn’t bring you up here because you look like Sara. If I wanted to bring Sara here with me, I would have asked her. Not you.”

There’s a rawness to his words, a truth that feels like it’s stolen the breath from her chest, and she stares at him while he drives. Deliberately he keeps his attention on the road while she gathers her scattered thoughts.

It’s perhaps the closest he’s come to implying why he’s really invited her to his cabin.

She’s desperate to push more. To ask for more answers.

But what will she do if he confesses he’s invited her for deeper reasons than just as ‘friends’ and ‘colleagues’? Having him admit that, to verbalise the unspoken hints, that changes things between them. Changes the future ahead of them that had seemed so clear and well defined a few days ago. While she’s still Major and he’s still Colonel, the direction is clear. Perhaps this week has been about seeing what the scenery could look like if they chose to change things.

Sam’s not sure she’s ready to acknowledge that the road ahead may not be as straight and clear and uncomplicated as she’s been trying to convince herself it is.

* * *

**eight**

It takes her most of the next morning to rebuild the motor and complete her self-assigned fixes on the boat. She cleans carefully around Charlie’s writing, taking care not to smudge or ruin the letters or or picture; she’s not sure how it will hold up once the boat is in actual water, but she won’t be the reason that this reminder fades.

When she’s done, she finds him around the back of the cabin, splitting logs into kindling. The flannel of his unbuttoned shirt flaps in the breeze around him as he works, the black t-shirt he’s wearing under it moulding to his chest as he swings the axe again and again before the stubborn wood finally splits. It’s wrong to be watching him like this, she thinks, but when he’s dressed in well-fitting jeans and t-shirt with a bit of stubble and chopping up firewood, he doesn’t really look like Colonel O’Neill. 

He doesn’t really look out of bounds.

“You going to help?” he calls out, resting the axe on the stump and swiping at his forehead flannel clad arm.

“I have something to show you,” she says instead, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth in her cheeks.

When he’s frozen in the doorway of the shed, his eyes travelling over the now somewhat-cleaner boat and put-together motor, she’s not sure if he’s happy or upset or regretting letting her tinker with it.

“Sir?” she asks hesitantly.

“I thought you were just fixing the motor,” he says finally, stepping into the shed and running a cautious hand over the clean gunwhale.

“Is it okay?”

She’s fixed a pair of bright blue waterproof cushions to the seats, attached some cup holders to the dash and a couple of rod holders to the gunwhale as well as a small removable board on the back for dealing with whatever fish he actually manages to catch. She hopes Mark in the general store didn’t talk her into the wrong type of stuff, and her fingers twist nervously in her pockets.

“Carter,” he says, and then turns to look at her. “How did you even get all of this,” he asks in disbelief, waving his hand at the boat.

“I bought it yesterday sir,” she says quietly.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“In Silver Creek?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I leave you alone for five minutes while I check out the VHS section and fishing gear, and you manage to buy everything to set up my boat?”

“It was more like half an hour, sir,” she points out. “But yes, sir. It’s a great store, sir.”

He steps onto the wheel arch and swings himself into the boat easily. She watches as he pushes at the seats—they swivel freely on their freshly greased posts—and fiddles with the removable board complete with storage hatch and magnetic strips for knives. 

“Is it okay, sir?” she asks again, more hesitantly this time.

Afterall, he didn’t ask her to fix his boat as much as she pushed him into letting her have a look at the motor. That’s a far cry from actually doing his boat up for him without him realising, particularly when there’s a bit of sentimental and emotional value to the boat as well.

“It still needs a fresh coat of paint and it could probably do with-”

“Carter,” he cuts her off. But instead of finishing his sentence, he pauses, and then walks back to the driver's seat. There’s a small, colourful plastic parrot on a spring and a little figurine of Captain Hook that she’s placed loosely on the dash behind the wheel. He pokes at the parrot; they watch it’s brightly coloured head bobble and bounce ridiculously until eventually the parrot stops bouncing but the silence keeps echoing around them. 

“I figure all pirate ships need a parrot,” she says quietly when the silence becomes too much. She’s trying to sound light hearted but her words fall between them as though made out of lead. 

“It’s great, Carter,” he says quietly. “It’s… thank you.”

She waits, but he doesn’t turn around, and again that silence becomes too suffocating and the guilt of taking things too far threatens to drown her until she needs to get out of the shed and into the sunlight.

The wooden handle of the axe is smooth with age and years of use. It’s solid and heavy in her hands, and when she swings the axe it bites into the half split log with a solid crack. There’s a sense of satisfaction when she swings again and the axe splits the log cleanly in two. It’s been years since she’s done anything like splitting firewood, and she focuses on the way her whole body is involved with the action.

She’s splitting the third log, a pleasant warmth in her shoulders starting to build with the activity, when she becomes aware of him watching her. She splits a piece off and then stops, resting the axe against the stump much like he did a little while ago before she turns to face him. 

“Keep this up, Carter, and you’ll definitely be invited back.”

“Sir?” 

“First the boat, now splitting the wood. Next time you come up, we can fix the deck. I’ve been wanting to extend it for a while.”

“We could do it in the next few days, sir,” she suggests, relief starting to bloom in her chest at his words.

“Nah,” he says. “Finish up what you’re doing. I’m going to sort some supplies, and then we’re going to go fishing.”

“Fishing, sir?” she asks, feeling a smile tug at her lips.

“In a boat,” he affirms.

“Uh, sir?”

“Carter?”

“I should point out I haven’t tested the motor yet. It might not go, sir.”

He tilts his head to the side, and then smiles at her. “I have no doubt it will go, Carter.”

* * *

**nine**

By the time they’ve fine tuned the motor and loaded in all the Colonel’s fishing gear, it’s too late to get the boat in the water. They hitch the trailer to the truck before they go to bed, and the next morning they’re bundled up in thick sweatshirts and gloves, on the road before the sun’s cleared the treeline. It’s a quick trip to a lake that has real fish in it for their maiden voyage, and the whole way they keep grinning at each other like loons; it’s almost as exciting as taking a jet for a test flight. Sam’s gut twists in anticipation and excitement as the small boat slides smoothly into the water. She waits in the boat while he moves the truck and trailer to the side, the gentle lapping of the water against it’s hull a soothing accompaniment to the silence in the predawn air.

It seems almost intrusive when the Colonel finally does the honours, the still morning suddenly rent by the loud rumble of the motor. It takes three attempts to get it going, and Sam makes him wait for a while idling near the shore as she listens to the motor carefully. It’s smooth and consistent and doesn’t miss a beat.

“Can we go already?” the Colonel demands finally, losing patience with her.

“Open it up, sir,” she relents, and she’s barely finished speaking before the Colonel opens the throttle and the little boat lurches forward.

The old motor isn’t particularly large or powerful, but the boat is small enough that it feels as though they’re flying along the still surface of the lake. She revels in the feel of the cold morning air whipping through hair, making her eyes water and nose run despite the little shelter offered by the windscreen.

It doesn’t take long before he slows the boat down, letting it glide smoothly through the water in the dim light as the sun starts to rise. He shrugs when she looks at him, surprised that he’d back down so quickly.

“I’m not familiar with the lake anymore, and I have no idea where the hazards are,” he confesses. “It would be stupid to sink it after you’ve only just fixed it.”

“And cold,” she agrees, smiling at him.

He finds an open area close to some old tree stumps poking up from the water, remnants of trees long ago drowned by the lake. While he pulls out the tackle box and starts fiddling with the rods, she finds the thermos and pours them each a coffee, content to let him do the fishing while she savours the bitter drink.

Once his line is set, they drift in a silence only broken by the occasional curse from him when the line snags on the underwater snares. Eventually the sun rises and the stillness fades away into birdsong and the sounds of nature, and she finds herself getting bored with the process; they’ve only packed a finite amount of coffee and she didn’t even think to bring a book.

By the time the sun is up high enough and warm enough to take off her sweatshirt, she’s bored out of her brain.

“Carter, would you sit still?” the Colonel complains. “You’re going to scare away all the fish.”

“I don’t think there are any fish,” she returns petulantly, feeling daringly insubordinate with both her tone and her discontent. 

“That’s because you keep scaring them away,” he returns, glaring at her.

Bored, irritated, and restless, she huffs out a breath and tries to sit still in the corner of the bench seat. The wood is hard and uncomfortable, and she thinks that if she ever comes out on the boat with him again she’ll make sure to get another cushion for this seat.

“Why don’t you fish?” he asks eventually.

“It’s not really my thing,” she says finally, trying to avoid his gaze as she looks out over the lake.

The truth is, she’s never really been fishing before. Her dad wasn’t exactly the fishing type, and family vacations definitely weren’t in small cabins by a lake. As much as it galls her, she wouldn’t know the first thing about baiting a hook or setting up a line.

“Carter?” he asks.

She stays quiet, pretending to be focused on the scenery around them, but apparently the Colonel can be as persistent at questioning her as he can be about fishing in a lake with no fish.

“Why’d you agree to come fishing if you don’t like fishing?”

Because she didn’t come for the fishing, she thinks to herself, but somehow has the sense to keep from blurting the words out.

Instead, she shrugs. “I don’t know. It sounded fun at the time.”

There’s quiet between them, and she thinks that maybe he’s satisfied with her answer.

“Have you even been fishing before?” 

“Does watching people fish off a pier count?” she asks eventually, feeling a bit embarrassed that for all her vast knowledge about the universe, the simple act of fishing is a mystery to her.

Instead of answering her question, he moves unexpectedly and grabs the second rod out of its holder.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll teach you how to fish.”

And because being taught how to fish is more interesting than doing nothing on a small boat in the middle of a lake, it doesn’t take much to convince her. She gives her full attention to his basic instruction on setting up a line and why they’re using lures instead of bait; if she’s internally thankful that she doesn’t have to deal with live worms or bugs, that’s just a bonus she doesn't need to mention out loud.

Casting, it turns out, is a lot harder than the Colonel makes it look. He stifles a chuckle when her attempt ends up with the line only releasing a few feet and the lure dangling uselessly above the water.

“You’re not hurling a baseball, Carter, you need to create an arc. You know this, it’s physics,” he says, a smile on his voice.

But somehow between releasing the line, keeping her balance and not rocking the boat too much, and generating the right momentum and trajectory with her rod, she feels uncoordinated and graceless and the lure ends up plopping into the water right near the motor.

“At least it’s in the water this time,” he says, grinning broadly. “Here.”

She tells herself she’s feeling hot because the autumn sunshine still has some heat left in it, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the Colonel has suddenly stepped up close behind her so that she can feel him pressed against her back. He wraps his arms around her waist, his hands covering hers where they’re holding the rod between suddenly limp fingers. 

“You need to hold the line with your finger like this,” he says, nudging her finger into place with his and then helping her hold the nylon thread pressed against the rod. “Now you release the bail.” There’s a gentle clunk as something releases, mirroring the slight lurch inside her belly as his breath blows warm against the side of her neck. “Now pull it back slightly… that’s it.”

Her arms are powerless; it’s all him as he pulls the rod back and then gently flicks it forward. “Let go! That’s it!”

The lure sails through the air gracefully, splashing into the water several feet from the boat. All she’s aware of is his hand now resting against her hip and his face pressed against hers as they watch the line running off the spool until it goes slack. “Now flick the bail back,” he instructs, his fingers helping her clumsy ones find the curved bail. “That’s it. Now reel it back slowly until there’s a little tension in the line. And then let it sink a little, and then reel it in again.”

His hand leaves her hip to help control the rod as he slowly winds the lure back in while simultaneously pulling the rod back and then letting it drift forward again. She’s not sure what her hands are supposed to be doing, because all she’s focused on is the feel of his arms around her and the way he’s rocking her backwards and forwards with the motion of the rod.

“Got it?” he asks, and she’s surprised to see the lure once again dangling from the edge of the rod.

“Huh?”

He chuckles, the sound running like fire through her veins. 

“Let’s try again.”

Sam Carter has never ever thought of herself as a flirt or something who’d utilise shallow ploys for attention and contact with a male, but suddenly she understands the appeal and tells herself that even though she’s pretty sure she finally got her head around the coordination of casting on the third attempt that there’s nothing wrong with utilising the Colonel’s help for a few more attempts to make sure she’s got the hang of things.

In fact, she thinks when she finally takes the rod in her own hands, the Colonel doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to separate from her either, because while she tries casting on her own his hands have stayed resting on her hips, steadying her against him while the boat rocks gently as she swings the rod out to the side.

“I did it!” she says, pleasure and pride rushing through her as she watches the lure sail through the air and land in the water. It’s not as graceful or as far as the Colonel’s casts go, but she did it on her own and it feels almost as good as watching the event horizon form on the Stargate.

“You did!” the Colonel agrees. “Now you have to-”

She yelps in surprise when there’s a sudden tug on the rod. Without thinking, she yanks the rod back sharply, shocked when instead of coming back smoothly something resists strongly and the rod bends unexpectedly under the tension.

“You got one!” the Colonel exclaims, sounding shocked. “Here!”

Reeling in a fish takes a lot longer than Sam expected it to take, and seemed to be as much of an art form as casting the lure in the first place. She stays trapped in the warmth of the Colonel’s arms while he wrestles with the rod, eventually dragging a fish up out of the water and swinging it over into the boat with relief. The fish is still attached to the line where it flops and wriggles on the floor, splashing water and slime all around the boat.

“Is that it?” she asks, peering at it in disappointment; for all the effort the Colonel was putting in, she expected something bigger. 

“What do you mean ‘is that it’?” he demands, looking down at her. “That’s a great fish!”

“It’s probably because it’s the first fish you’ve seen in years,” she retorts without thinking.

He nudges her, shaking his head in amusement while the fish continues to thrash. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Carter. That’s a great fish for a first go!”

“I didn’t catch it,” she disagrees.

“You cast it.”

“But you did all the work,” she points out.

“Guess we’re just a great team then,” he says, and presses a quick kiss to her temple.

As though he realises what he did, he lets go abruptly and clears his throat a little awkwardly. “Time to learn how to dress a fish.”

“I think I should practice my casting,” she says instead, peering down at the fish.

Sam quite likes eating fish, and she thinks she could quite like fishing too. But the whole killing and cleaning a fish seems a whole lot less appealing.

“He who catches it, cleans it,” the Colonel chimes in a falsetto tone. 

“He who wants to eat it, cleans it,” she returns. “Besides, you caught it.”

“I thought we decided team effort.”

She glances down at the fish now gasping on the floor of the boat.

“I fixed the boat,” she says suddenly, inspired. “You owe me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think there was anything in the universe that could gross Major Carter out.”

Sam raises an eyebrow back at him, fighting down a smile. “Major Carter isn’t here right now. And Sam avoids touching fish guts whenever possible.”

“Well, _Sam_ ,” he says, drawling her name slowly in a way that does funny things to her insides. “This is part of fishing.”

“I think… I think I don’t like fishing that much,” she realises. Not when it involves killing fish and dealing with them. The casting and flirting part was okay, but the rest, not so much.

“What would you do if you were stuck off world and had no other options?” the Colonel asks, amusement colouring his words as he rifles through a box and pulls out a pair of pliers.

“Major Carter would do what she’d have to do,” Sam says, trying not to flinch as the Colonel pulls the hook out of the fish’s mouth.

“Carter?”

“I’m just going to go make sure we don’t drift into something,” she says, turning her back on the Colonel and the flapping fish.

“What, here in the middle of the big wide open lake?” he asks, openly laughing at her now.

“Someone has to keep watch,” she retorts.

“Okay, Carter, you keep us safe from the reeds.”

* * *

**ten**

Sometime between early morning coffee on the pier and endless hours on the water, she’s forgotten to keep a distance between them. It feels like they’ve been up as his cabin for weeks, existing in a small corner of reality locked away by themselves. The days are long and slow; with the boat repairs out of the way she forgets to find excuses to give herself some time away from him, and she doesn’t remember why that was important in the first place.

And then suddenly it’s their last night at the cabin, and instead of sitting on opposite sides of the sofa with a chess board safely between them they’ve ended up side by side with their thighs pressed together and his arm stretched out behind her along the back of the sofa. The TV is off, and the only light is cast by the glow of the fireplace and the small table lamp somewhere behind them. Here in the dim room, she loses sight of the rulebook separating them while she’s hypnotised by the undulating flames and feel of his warmth against her. Two half empty glasses of wine rest on the coffee table in front of them; untouched for some time. Maybe because when the wine is all gone, there’s no reason for the evening to continue, and neither of them seems to be particularly inclined to let it draw to an end.

This is a moment, she thinks when his fingers travel slowly over her wrist and up her forearm, hardly more than a brush against the fine woolen knit she’s wearing. This is a moment where they make a decision. And full of wine and sun filled days and the ease of his company, the decision doesn’t seem as clear and easy as it was a week ago. She sighs as his hand slides further up her arm, along her shoulder, and then finally his fingers brush the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, rubbing small circles that send her nerve ends singing. She tips her head, letting it drop against his shoulder, turning her face in against his chest and breathing in the scent of him while she gives his fingers more room to work.

Slowly, gently, they slip up into her hairline, gently massaging the back of her scalp. She sighs again, but it turns into a low whisper of a moan when his hand cups the back of her head and she feels his lips brushing against her forehead.

He nudges her head, tilting her so that her face lifts towards him, and she forces open eyes she didn’t even realise she’d closed. In the firelight his eyes are dark and warm, even more hypnotic than the flames she’s been staring at. He cups her cheek with his other hand, cradling her face gently and rubbing his thumb over the angle of her jaw toward the corner of her lips.

She’s never ached quite so much for something she shouldn’t have. Something she wants so desperately she’s prepared to sacrifice everything else important in her life for it. 

“This… I didn’t plan this when I invited you,” he says suddenly, his voice low and rough, rumbling against the hand now resting on his chest. Beneath her fingertips she can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“Then why did you invite me?” she asks, blinking at him.

He smiles, one of those rare smiles she’s been seeing more frequently the last few days, where his whole face creases with joy and his eyes seem to come alive. “For the fishing,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

Their noses are bumping now, his breath warm as it washes against her cheeks. She thinks maybe she’s drunk on his presence, because she’s smiling too, reckless and free, on the precipice of something wonderful. All she has to do is take another step forward, and let herself fall.

And oh, she thinks when his lips finally brush against hers, what a fall it is.

It’s sweet and soft and new, but as easy as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. He tastes like wine and chocolate and something she vaguely remembers from an alien contagion a few years ago, and she doesn’t think she ever wants him to stop. It’s fragile and oh so perfect the ache in her chest seems to expand until she’s fighting for breath but denying the impulse because she never wants the kiss to end.

“Carter,” he whispers, kissing the contours of her cheek before coming back to her lips. “Sam,” he whispers, before pressing his lips against hers again.

His hair is softer and smoother than she thought it would be when she slides her arms around his shoulder and runs her hands through it, the short strands like silk between her fingers. She pulls him in closer to her, tighter, until she’s got a leg over his lap and the kisses are deeper and more frantic when their lips part against each other.

All she has to do is slide closer to him, to press herself against him, and there would be no going back. It would be the point where everything changes.

His hands are on her hips now, not pulling her towards him, but keeping her captive so she can’t escape his kisses. When they separate for air he drags a trail of damp kisses down her neck, his hands creeping up over her hips and slipping under the sweater so that the roughened pads of his fingers drag across the sensitive skin and suddenly she’s pressed against him tightly, his heat and hardness obliterating any remaining doubts from her mind. She nips at his earlobe, tugging the soft skin between her teeth while she pushes down against him, rocking her hips over his. He groans against her, a deep, primal sound that she feels low in her pelvis, a rush of liquid heat surging through her when he nips at the tender skin under her jaw.

“Bedroom,” he grunts, surging up against her, and never has she felt more reckless and wild than she presses back down against him, throwing all commonsense out the window and giving herself over to him. “We’re not doing this on the couch,” he says roughly, catching her lips in another deep kiss as he starts to move them off the sofa. “Not the first time, anyway.”

  
“Promises,” she murmurs, distracted by his hand under her shirt and heading towards her breast even as they stand up together. “I”m going to-”

There’s a bright, unexpected flash of light and a sensation as though the world is dropping out from under her feet, and suddenly they’re in a brightly light, alien environment with no cozy fire or intimate atmosphere. 

“What the hell?” the Colonel exclaims, shocked, his mouth pulling away from hers.

It takes less than a second for the man holding her in his arms to change back into Colonel O’Neill instead of the man— _Jack_ —she’s been fishing with for the last few days. It takes her another second to recover herself, to push the raging rush of sensation out of her mind and focus on what’s going on around her. His hand is still up her shirt, and she’s still got her hands buried in his hair. They jerk apart awkwardly, and Sam realises with a pang of regret that whatever might have happened between will be pushed away for good now; they’ve started crossing a line and have gotten too far to play the ignorance game anymore, but not far enough to keep pushing. There’s a deep stab of grief, and she finds herself wishing she had a little less integrity and a little less commitment to her career and oaths as an officer, but she knows the Colonel will never allow things to go this far again.

“Thor? Helloooo?”

Swallowing, she looks around, taking in the large glass portal and through it the darkness of space and the unmistakable visage of Earth down below them.

“Sir, is this…?”

“It’s an Asgard ship,” the Colonel agrees, nodding his head.

Despite the rawness of her emotions, there’s a jolt of excitement and amazement that wriggles through her. An Asgard ship!

A strange sound is audible, initially faint and then growing louder. It’s mechanical, almost as though slivers of metal are falling on the floor.

“What is it, sir?” she asks, looking around to try and find the source as a door slides open on the far side of the room. “Oh, oh my god!”

There’s what looks to be a sea of metallic spiders heading towards them, and as they approach that tinkling sound turns into a roar, and Sam has never been so terrified in her life.

“THOR?” the Colonel yells loudly, desperately, grabbing her arm and dragging her back against the window looking out over Earth. They don’t even have weapons to defend themselves, Sam thinks, clutching at the Colonel and desperately searching the room for anything that might help them.

“Greetings, O’Neill,” Thor’s voice announces over a communications system. “If you and Major Carter head to the right there is a corridor that will lead you to me.”

They look at each other and nod, and together start running towards a second door now sliding open. It’s only as they race up the corridor leaving the spiders behind that Sam realises they’re still holding onto each other.

* * *

**Epilogue**

P3X-234 is beautiful. It’s filled with trees and in the distance there are large, snow covered mountains. Not far from the Stargate is a broad river that the Colonel is convinced contains fish. Sam’s not at all surprised when the Colonel produces a couple of coils of fishing line and hooks from a small fold of wax paper he stores in the pocket of his pack.

“Good thing Teal’c thought to bring our packs along,” she says, sitting on the ground beside him and watching as he deftly ties the hook to a length of line.

“And our boots,” he agrees, jiggling his foot so his boot taps a few times on the damp ground.

He hands her the first length of line once he’s satisfied with the hook and small sinker, and she waits while he sets up his own line. Just before they’re done, he breaks the corner of a power bar, moulds it into two small balls, and then gives one to her. She presses the hook into it carefully, squishing it gently to make sure it sticks and then stands up with him so they can cast the lines out.

“Toss it in like this,” he says, showing her how to unravel the line as the sinker and hook soar through the air and land somewhere towards the middle of the river.

She copies his action; her own hook and sinker don’t fly as far or gracefully as his, and she glances over at him to see him watching her with a half-smile on his face. Maybe if they were still in Minnesota she’d have asked him to help her cast it again. And maybe he’d have stood close behind her with his hands on her hips to help her find her rhythm. 

But P3X-234 is a long way from Minnesota, and Major Carter doesn’t usually ask Colonel O’Neill to hold her hand, let alone her hips, so she settles down beside him on the ground with a respectable distance between them so their legs aren’t touching at all.

“Now what?” she asks.

“Now we wait. Hold onto your line so you can feel if-”

“Oh!” she says, hand tightening reflexively around the small coil of line her hand as a now familiar and distinctive tug yanks against the line. “I think… I think I got something!” 

“You what?” he asks, staring at her in annoyance. “Of course you do.”

“Here!” she says, thrusting the line over at the Colonel.

Over the last week it’s become apparent that while Sam is very good at hooking the fish, the Colonel is much better at reeling them in, and today is no different.

It takes him almost five minutes before suddenly there’s thrashing and splashing and a hint of a long body thrashing in the water. When the Colonel finally lands it, Sam backs away quickly, staring at it in horror.

“It looks like a Goa’uld,” she says in disgust.

“I believe it is a Noc’rak,” Teal’c offers from where he’s been observing their activity.

“A what?” the Colonel asks, sounding just as disgusted as she feels.

“A Noc’rak,” Teal’c repeats, sounding pleased. “They are considered a delicacy amongst Jaffa.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird,” the Colonel asks, staying well back from his catch, “that Jaffa like eating something that looks like a giant Goa’uld?”

“It sort of looks like an eel, maybe?” Sam says doubtfully.

“Carter, it’s got a sucker instead of a mouth!”

She steps a bit closer, but the Colonel holds his arm out in front of her so she doesn’t get too close. “It does look like an eel,” she says after studying. “I’m pretty sure we have eel-like fish back on Earth that look similar to this."

“We do?” the Colonel sounds disgusted.

“We will eat well tonight, O’Neill,” Teal’c says, sounding quite pleased. 

To be honest, Sam’s not sure that this eel thing is much more appealing than another meal of MREs.

“Well, he who wants to eat it, cleans it,” the Colonel says carefully, shooting her a small smile.

“I believe the saying is _he who catches it, cleans it,_ ” Teal’c returns calmly. 

“Carter caught it,” the Colonel says quickly.

“You landed it,” she returns just as quickly. “Sir.”

His gaze settles on hers, and the silence between them thickens just enough that she knows Teal’c must pick up on something, but then the Colonel smiles and shrugs his shoulders. 

“You keep saving our asses with genius ideas, and I’ll deal with the fish, Sam.”

The use of her given name surprises her, and drags her back to that moment on the boat when they discussed the first fish she’d caught. She can see Teal’c raising his eyebrow and looking consideringly at them, and deliberately keeps her gaze on the Colonel.

“Deal,” she says slowly, and then offers him a smile. He nudges her gently with his shoulder, an innocent contact but it’s just enough to ease the uncertainties that have been growing ever since Thor beamed them up onto his ship.

“Team work, Carter,” he says finally.

“Always, sir.”

In the grass, the eel-thing is still flapping and rolling about, and they stand watching it for some time.

“You sure you want to eat that, Teal’c?” the Colonel asks eventually, resignation on his voice.

“Indeed."

“Next time, you clean it.”

**Author's Note:**

> So when I wrote this fic initially I pictured Jack's cabin set in glorious mountains because I can totally see Jack kicking back in mountain country and the wilderness. As it apparently turns out, Minnesota is not known for glorious mountains, but rather for being gloriously flat. I owe my friends a huge thanks for listening to my late night meltdowns about how DARE Minnesota be FLAT, and I owe Sarah_M a special thanks for wonderful suggestion which I'm putting here for posterity because it needs to be immortalised:
> 
> They finally arrived at the cabin to the flat scenery they were fully expecting to find. It was beautiful and tranquil.  
> "Wow. It's so green here..." Sam sighed.  
> "Yep. Green and flat. Exactly how I like it."
> 
> (Also, if it's not green, just replace that with correct colour.)
> 
> "Mm," Sam nodded. "It'd be annoying I guess if you had to drive through mountain ranges every time you wanted to come here."
> 
> And then they fished. Admiring the flatness of the scenery some more. It was fun, though perhaps occasionally uncomfortable - what with all the sexual tension unresolved. But they had no regrets about the trip at all. Or, perhaps, they did. The end.


End file.
